Well, there’s a plenty. We are neighbors all
And what one lacks the others can supply,
For all the world will share the harvest feast.
THE OLD MOTHER,
Yea, all the world is here, or will be soon,
Save my good mate and my five strapping lads
Who were my world and rotted years ago.
THE WOMAN
There, mother, there—forget the old sad past,
For all the world is sweet with harvest scent,
And we are glad. Come, share with us our joy.
THE OLD MOTHER,
Forget? Forget? Who tells me to forget?
A silly chit with everything to learn,
A ninny who has lived while life is peace
And therefore thinks that peace has always been
As it is now. Say, girl, would you forget
That man of yours torn from between your breasts
And sent to splice with sabres and with shells?
Could you forget a baby’s filthy death
By plague or famine or infesting flies—
A son’s abasement or a daughter’s rape—
These things could you forget? I never shall.
I would be of another race and kind,
A woman who remembers what has been,
Who knows that some day it may come again——
THE FIRST WOMAN
Poor soul, there—I am sorry. I did not know.
We speak but foolishly to soothe a pain
Which we have never felt.
THE OLD MOTHER,